


Allegiance

by ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Allusions to cannibalism, Character Death, M/M, Sexual Situations, Slash, Strong Profanity, Violence, descriptions of torture, rarepair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2596442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor/pseuds/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his final year at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy had few illusions about where he stood and who the enemy was. However, he never thought he might find a new friend in the shadow of all he had done and would have to do, let alone anything more.</p><p>Michael Corner had a way of shattering Draco's expectations like that.</p><p>As life at Hogwarts drags everyone further and further into shades of grey, where will Draco's loyalties lie when the lines of battle are drawn? Who will be standing next to him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to my beta, Soraya/babewithbrains (I'm not sure what her username is on this site), for her valuable input and extraordinary cheerleading. I might actually finish this one because of her.

Draco can’t see him anywhere.

From his spot in the corner, crouched between his tired, defeated parents, Draco Malfoy searches the Great Hall for any sign of the one face he needs to find. There is one single person he has to know survived the battle, and that particular dark head is nowhere in sight.

With a gentle tug, Lucius indicates that they are about to leave, but Draco looks at his father in askance. “Can we stay for a few more minutes?”

“No, darling.” Narcissa sighs. “We have stayed our welcome, and it’s time to go.”

Draco glances around the room quickly, scanning for any sign of someone he never thought he’d give a damn about. As they pass through the doors, he hisses under his breath, “Boot!”

Terry Boot gives Draco a scathing look. “Fuck off, Malfoy.”

Ignoring the barb, Draco asks, “Where is he?”

“Like you care.” The sneer, however, is not enough to mask the way Terry’s face blanches. “They moved the middle row into the staff room.”

With that, Terry turns away and stalks back into the Great Hall, leaving Draco to process this information. Middle row. The words feel like gibberish to him, some code language he doesn’t speak. It isn’t until Narcissa covers her mouth with her hand and gasps that he finally understands.

“That poor boy,” she says lamely.

For a moment, Draco fears that she knows why he doesn’t want to leave, but he quickly realises that he does not care who knows. All he wants to do is run back through the Great Hall and see _him_ one last time.

Draco gets almost three feet away before Lucius firmly tugs him back towards the doors. “No, Draco. We mustn’t keep them waiting.”

There is no question who ‘they’ are. All three of them know too well.

One last lingering look at the door of the staff room is all Draco gets as he is shuffled away from the longest, most torrid chapter of his life.

Besides, if anything has been proven in the past day, it is that dead is dead, and Michael Corner isn’t coming back.  
  
  


* * *  
  
  


The procession of students arriving at Hogwarts was drastically different than in past years, Draco noted. The numbers were significantly smaller, but that was not the cause of the disturbing quiet that stole over the black-clad group of youths, marching towards the carriages (there were no boats this year) like a funeral cortege.

Perhaps it was the pair of Death Eaters bellowing at the short-legged first years to keep up with the group. Draco never thought he’d miss that great oaf, Hagrid, but he did that day. Draco knew these two, knew their methods and sick fetishes. The Carrows, Alecto and Amycus, were twisted, ill-educated, and they hated children. Well, they liked children, but more for their entertainment factor. The sight of them made Draco want to get back on the train and flee in the opposite direction — not home, where the Dark Lord was holding court, but certainly not in that bloody castle with those maniacs.

“Get your bleeding arses moving!” Alecto shouted at a particularly small student. The girl looked to have some sort of walking disability and could only hobble at half the pace of a normal stride. “You!”

Alecto strode up to the child and dragged her to her feet by the collar of her robes. “Walk any slower and I’ll throw you in the lake for the Squid.”

This girl, to her credit, notched her chin up and said bluntly, “I can’t, as you can obviously see.” She waved her hand at her legs as if revealing some profound fact. “If I had been allowed to keep my wheelchair, I could go a bit faster. That is, if you Death Eaters weren’t allergic to Muggle technology and common sense!”

“You’ll pay for that, girl. Mark my words.”

The students around the scene looked at each other nervously, afraid to interject for fear of bringing wrath upon themselves, as well. Silently, Draco saw Susan Bones hook her elbow with the small girl’s, and Hannah Abbott did the same on the other side. And, as soon as it had started, the display was over, and he could finally breathe normally without the fear of drawing attention to himself.

However, that did not stop Amycus from spotting Draco anyway, who had found himself surrounded by a flock of younger students, giving him no cover to hide from their attentions. “Malfoy!” Amycus called.

When the older man approached, Draco stayed the shudder that threatened to surface. “Carrow.”

Amycus punched Draco’s arm in what he assumed was a playful gesture, but Draco winced. “Life in that fancy palace of yours has made you soft. These little twats should be answering to you.”

Unsure how he was supposed to answer, Draco offered, “Depends on the question.”

The Death Eater laughed. It was repulsive.

“If you will excuse me,” Draco said, looking pointedly at Crabbe and Goyle, who were pushing around some Hufflepuff boy, “those particular twats _do_ answer to me.”

He didn’t miss the scathing looks sent his way from dozens of students, some of whom he didn’t even know, and he wasn’t the only recipient of these baleful glares. Tracey Davis, a quiet, mousy seventh-year Slytherin was wilting under the attention. Every one of his housemates, from Daphne Greengrass to Blaise Zabini, found themselves under similar levels of scrutiny.

Soon, Draco sat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. He stared straight out as Professor Snape, the new Headmaster, described the plethora of changes coming to the school: earlier curfew, Dark Arts training, a new mandatory Muggle Studies curriculum, and two new teachers.

Though Draco was barely listening, he did manage to catch the highlights, as well as the inevitable outcries of horror that accompanied each announcement. However, one particular change had the Gryffindor table up in arms.

“And in light of the recent influx of new students and the departure of less . . . appropriate pupils,” Snape drawled, “all prefect positions have been revoked and will be assigned by merit, not by house.”

Draco could only cringe when the Gryffindor table revolted. Neville Longbottom stood, and all eyes in the Great Hall were on him. “Professor, th-that’s not fair. There have been prefects from every house for centuries.”

“Sit _down_ , Longbottom,” Snape said, his voice edged with steel that Draco was happy to not have directed at him.

However, not only did Longbottom remain standing, but he was also joined by four of his housemates. “Neville’s right, Snape,” Ginny Weasley called out. “You’re letting Death Eaters run the school, and now you’re handing over the rest of it to the Slytherins.”

There were murmurs of assent around the hall, which drowned out Snape’s angrily sputtered rebuke at the Weasley girl’s slight at his title, but the loudest cries were from the five students standing and shouting at the staff table.

It was the first time he had ever seen detention doled out at the opening feast. He couldn’t help but agree with one of the Ravenclaws, who was shaking his head in disgust.

* * *  
  
  


The stench of charred, decaying flesh still lingers in the air at Malfoy Manor — a remnant of the Dark Lord’s occupancy. If he sits still enough, Draco can almost hear his late aunt’s mad cackling echo through the drawing room as he, Lucius, and Narcissa sit in wait.

Almost on cue, the Aurors walk through the unlocked front door, shouting the odds as if they expect a fight. One of them visibly starts when he sees the three of them, calmly sipping tea that has long since gone cold. Another one of them jabs her wand in their direction and orders them to stand. They comply, of course.

“Who else is here?” she shouts.

“Nobody,” Lucius answers evenly. “Everyone left for the battle, and no one returned with us. We are, as far as I’m aware, alone in the house.”

Taken aback by the lack of struggle, the Auror harrumphs. “We will be checking, regardless.”

“Of course,” Narcissa says with a nod. “All the wards have been removed inside the house. You can go where you like.”

As the team of Aurors starts searching the house before the eventual arrest they will make, Draco stares at the small, flickering fire in the hearth. A couple of years before, he would’ve felt like a ponderous twat for brooding in front of the fire, but things are different; life is hard, and the slightly hypnotic properties of the dancing flames transfix him.

Michael Corner is dead, and Draco mourns him. Quietly, but he does nonetheless. Even as they are shepherded into holding cells at the Ministry later that night, Draco cannot take his mind off the unlikely ally he had found at Hogwarts.  
  
  


* * *  
  
  


“Useless gits,” Michael mumbled as the unusually quiet students filtered out of the Great Hall. Even the Gryffindors knew to shut up after five of their ranks landed detentions and the honour of being the first house to end the first day in the castle with a negative points balance. Twenty-five rubies hovered outside the hourglasses as a reminder of that outburst and what it had cost them.

Draco had no love for any one of the Gryffindors, let alone the whole house, but he knew more than most the level of danger the students were all in merely by their proximity to the Carrows. If he had learned anything from his disastrous sixth year, it was that he had no taste for violence.

So, what was he to do with a summons to the newly-appointed Discipline Director’s office on the first day at school except comply?

It was with a wary tread that he made his way to what had always been the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor’s office for his first teacher/student meeting with Amycus Carrow. With a timid knock, Draco entered when he was bidden, expecting to be alone with Carrow. He blinked in surprise when he saw two other Slytherins in the room, eyeing the very foolish Gryffindors from earlier.

“Am I in trouble, Professor?” Draco asked as he repeatedly switched his gaze from his housemates to the nervous-looking Gryffindors.

One of them was Longbottom, and another a girl whose name Draco couldn’t remember, as her only defining feature was being joined at the lips with Ron Weasley for half the previous school year. The third was the Weasley girl, and the other two did not ring a bell at all. Vincent Crabbe looked at them with a glint in his eye that Draco had always assumed the larger boy reserved for pastries, and Blaise Zabini looked bored.

“Not at all, my boy,” Amycus answered with a laugh that made the hairs on Draco’s arms stand on end. “You’re here because you know the way things ought to be done. It’s time we took some of the more . . . remedial students and brought them up to speed.”

Hiding revulsion was a talent Draco had honed by living in the same house as the Dark Lord for two full summers, and it held him in good stead at this moment. “Yes, Professor,” Draco agreed, his even tone laced with the barest hint of contempt for good measure. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

Nodding in approval, Amycus barked, “Longbottom. Step forward.”

Longbottom did as he was told, crossing his arms defiantly as he stood with his back ramrod straight. He didn’t look much like the pudgy boy who stuttered and bumbled his way through school for as long as Draco could remember. Draco could have almost respected it had it not been so stupid and dangerous.

“Malfoy,” Amycus said, notching his wand in Longbottom’s direction. “Teach these miscreants how the Dark Lord deals with that sort of attitude.” The accompanying smile made Draco’s belly roil.

Slowly drawing his wand, Draco asked, “You want me to use _that_?”

Amycus narrowed his eyes at Draco. “Yes, ‘that’,” he spat. He whipped his wand at Longbottom and hissed, “ _Crucio_.”

For five seconds, Longbottom’s screams pounded against Draco’s nerves, but it could have very well lasted five minutes for all he could tell.

“Now, it’s your turn.”

Draco gripped his wand until he was sure his knuckles were white in an effort to appear nonchalant. He had never cast a Cruciatus Curse before. Bellatrix had instructed him how to do it and left him alone with a stray dog to practise. When she returned an hour later and the dog was unharmed, he received a first-hand demonstration of the proper method. Draco hadn’t been able to stand for the next four hours.

Swallowing the knot in his throat, Draco gasped the incantation. Longbottom convulsed and fell to the floor, shouting. His spell did not carry anywhere near the amount of power Amycus’s did, but Draco knew that Longbottom was still in agony. Draco closed his eyes and cast the curse again.

Soon, the trio of Slytherins found themselves opposite five now-shaking Gryffindors, with Unforgiveables passing through their lips like so many Shield Charms.

The screaming clawed at something inside Draco; he had to keep himself from retching several times until Amycus finally declared the lesson a success. Two of the Gryffindors looked to be in need of a hospital wing visit, but the sight of blood made Draco dizzy. With a wave of his hand, he said to Blaise, “Take care of that, will you?”

Draco made it to the loo in time to throw up in the sink.

A wry chuckle came from the corner of the room, bouncing off the gleaming granite and echoing in a hideous way. Its owner stepped out from behind one of the stalls, his face twisted into a sneer. “What’s the matter, Malfoy? Have you decided that half-bloods offend you, too?”

“Fuck off, Corner,” Draco hissed, his breath tasting of sick. “One might question why you’re harassing blokes in the loo. Tongues will wag.”

Michael’s angry smile faltered slightly enough that Draco thought he might have imagined it. “Not even pervs are that desperate, Malfoy.” He stepped closer in what Draco assumed was supposed to be a threatening manner. “I know what you and your mates did in there.”

Draco shuddered at the memory, unable to hide his reaction. “You said yourself that they were stupid. They got what the professor thought they deserved.”

“You make me sick, Malfoy,” Michael said, his head shaking is disgust. “You’re un-fucking-believable.”

Weary from nearly a half hour of listening to pathetic screams and pleas, Draco gritted his teeth and ground out, “Then tell _your_ mates to shut up when they’ve no business speaking out of turn.” With that, he left the room to escape Michael’s intense gaze, which was disconcerting in its ability to scratch open old memories Draco would sooner forget.  
  
  


* * *  
  
  


As the Aurors cut a swath through the house, Draco can hear the tell-tale sounds of furniture crashing to the floor from careless handling. Lucius’s jaw twitches, but Narcissa still sits placidly through the cacophony of destruction.

Draco can understand. He doesn’t care much, either.

All of them know what the Aurors will find: dark artefacts that have long since been illegal, evidence of the Dark Lord’s extended residency, some items belonging to dead Mudbloods in the cellar, and probably a few other things to cement society’s new-found hatred for the Malfoys’ ilk. But these are merely things, and if Draco knows anything for certain, it is that any attachment that he once held for this place did not survive the war and the prolonged siege from within the house.

There is just one thing in Draco’s robe pocket that he hopes they do not find, but it isn’t likely to mean anything to anybody except him. It’s innocuous enough that they might even let him take it with him to Azkaban.  
  
  


* * *  
  
  


The first night back at Hogwarts was not the last of its kind. Gryffindors were apparently slow learners, which seemed to be infectious, as Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws soon found their way into Carrow’s office. Draco wanted to rail at their stupidity.

It was not the last time Draco found himself administering these ‘lessons’, as well. Those screams banged around his head for days after each session, even after he lessened the strength of the curses to barely anything. Maybe they were only crying out to spite him. That’s what he would’ve done.

Draco didn’t throw up anymore after these sessions, but the boys’ bathroom on the first floor was still a favoured haunt to collect his thoughts and composure before returning to the Slytherin common room. After about a month, he finally decided to discontinue this practice when he realised he was being watched.

After an entire year of dealing with the Dark Lord, Draco knew what it felt like to have eyes on him from seemingly nowhere. “Skulking about the shadows isn’t very Gryffindor of you,” he called to whoever was stalking him, wholly sure it was one of Longbottom’s lot. Drawing his wand, he sighed emphatically and added, “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

When his stalker stepped into the light, Draco was surprised to see Michael again, wearing the same sour expression from the last time they’d interacted. “Not very Gryffindor at all, then,” Draco mumbled.

“Move it, Malfoy. If you want to be able to walk to your common room, I suggest you leave now.”

Draco’s hackles rose at this threat. He forced down his anger and reverted to an almost reflexive sarcasm. “Is this what you do with your nights, Corner? Lurk about the shadows until you come up with a decent line?”

Michael stepped closer to Draco until they were only inches apart. “I wait for you lot to leave so I can get them medical attention. Don’t assume that you’re remotely worth my time.”

A heavy lump of something he would later identify as guilt rested itself in Draco’s stomach. Since that first night, Draco had made a point out of being one of the first out the door, not wanting to stay around for the aftermath of prolonged torture. Merlin knew he’d seen enough at home.

With a gulp, Draco lowered his wand and tucked it into his robes. More levelly than he ever thought he could manage, he said, “Crabbe, Hawkins, and Bulstrode were in there, as well. Crabbe usually takes about ten minutes to clear out. He’ll be by here any minute.”

He didn’t bother looking back at Michael, but Draco could almost feel the look of shock as he strode away towards the stairs.  
  
  


* * *  
  
  


_Well, at least it’s not Azkaban._

Thin lines of dampness trace down the walls of the holding cell, where Draco is kept apart from his parents. He wonders if they might be able to use the other two units they are wasting by enforcing solitary confinement on compliant captives. However, for the moment, he is glad for the time alone and for the utterly ridiculous portrait on the wall casting a shock of moonlight through painted bars.

They hadn’t found his little keepsake. Or, rather, they had done and didn’t find it worth confiscating after a brisk round of revelation spells. It is now to his captors exactly what it looks like — a slip of parchment with a few things scribbled on it. This, of course, isn’t entirely true. It’s nothing dangerous. There used to be a particular spell to unlock its secrets, but it holds no more secrets and Harry Potter still holds Draco’s wand. And the person holding the other half of the parchment won’t be sending any more missives.

So there it sits in his hands, with nothing but the last message sent to him frozen in time. _H2G3R1_. It’s nonsense, really. Michael had wanted information from Draco he wasn’t ready to give, and the reply had gone unsent. For a moment, Draco wonders how much amnesty it would create for him had he done what this paper had asked, before he realises he disgusts himself.  
  
  


* * *  
  
  


Another night of detention leaves Draco with a dull roar between his ears. He forgot to even pretend to enjoy torturing his fellow students — a fourth-year Gryffindor this time — for Carrow’s benefit. No one had been looking at him, anyway. Most of the attention had been on Terry Boot, who Carrow had mentioned being in need of extra credit. Boot had refused to perform the Cruciatus Curse on some random Hufflepuff as commanded, so he received his punishment from Carrow personally. Even Goyle, who was finally on course for his one and only Outstanding mark of his school career, had winced at the sound.

Draco had been so eager to leave that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he was pulled roughly into a darkened alcove. He felt a hand slide over his mouth, and what felt like an envelope was thrust into his palm.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he heard Michael hiss into his ear. “Follow me, and be quiet.”

Unsure of Michael’s duelling capabilities should he choose to struggle, Draco allowed himself to be tugged into a darkened room in the dungeons. Draco had never gone into it, but he knew a few students in his house who used it to slip out for a quick grope.

Michael’s wand flashed, and a soft blue ball of fire cast a glow throughout the room, reminding Draco that he had something in his hand. “What the hell is this?” he mused as he looked over the nondescript slip of parchment, one brow quirked in question.

“A chance to do something decent.”

Draco glanced over the top of the paper, expecting Michael’s usual sarcasm, but to his surprise, the other boy seemed completely earnest. “Seriously? You really think _I_ would help _you_?”

If Draco didn’t know better, he could’ve sworn he saw the beginnings of a smile on Michael’s face. “There are more of us than there are of you. You cooperate and we might be inclined to not make your life a living hell this year.”

“Might?” Draco scoffed, crossing his arms.

“Might.”

“Well, now that you’ve offered that, how could I possibly say no?” Draco said as he rolled his eyes.

Michael’s expression didn’t change as he regarded Draco. For a moment, Draco wasn’t sure if Michael wasn’t in some sort of trance, before the latter finally said, “Because I’ve seen you after. It sickens you.”

Choosing his next words carefully, Draco replied, “It does to a lot of people. Your point?”

“Because you’ve been a selfish piece of shit for as long as I’ve known you,” Michael said bluntly. “This year, you have a chance to be a halfway decent human being.”

Anger swelled inside Draco. This one was more of a sanctimonious twat than Potter. With a growl, he pushed Michael roughly against the wall and tossed back his left sleeve. Shoving the Dark Mark that stood out achingly against his skin at Michael’s face, Draco said, in a low voice that surprised even himself, “Look at this. _Look at it!_ What does this tell you?” When Michael averted his eyes, Draco shouted, “Look at it!”

They stood there like that for a small eternity before Michael quietly slid from Draco’s grasp. “Looks like you’ve chosen, then. I’ll leave you two alone,” Michael said softly, his expression tinged with disappointment. However, Michael stopped at the doorway and said, without turning around, “Still recruiting.”

After Michael left the room, Draco gave his wand an angry wave, extinguishing the little blue flame, and stalked off to the Slytherin common room. He was relieved that no one was about, and none of his roommates mentioned his later-than-usual arrival.

It wasn’t until hours later that echoes of agonising shrieks roughly ripped him from his troubled sleep. A cry of his own bottled in his throat, Draco gave up on a decent night’s rest and found his thoughts clinging to one of the few things that weren’t about people he didn’t care about crying on the floor and robbing him of sleep. He’d tucked Michael’s paper under his pillow, hoping a house elf would take it without his fellow Slytherins seeing whatever was on it.

When Draco thought about it, he had no idea what it said. His curiosity overruling his annoyance with Michael, he pulled out the slip of parchment and found absolutely nothing written on it. It wasn’t until he had balled it up and prepared to toss it out of his drawn curtains that Draco remembered what Michael had said earlier that night before they parted ways.

Curious more than earnest, Draco touched his still-lit wand to the parchment and whispered, “Still recruiting.”

A few random letter and number combinations appeared on the parchment, which made even less sense to Draco than the blankness that had been there moments ago. It took several minutes of close study to notice a pattern to the letters. They no longer seemed so random. _G2 H1 R1_. Two Gryffindors, one Hufflepuff, one Ravenclaw. Those had to have been the students who were in detention that night. Boot, of course, didn’t count, as he had been expected to administer punishment rather than receive it.

Draco could only speculate what information Michael wanted in return. Who was set to dole out punishment? When they left? Who was in the worst shape? He silently cursed Michael’s ridiculousness; if he wanted Draco to reply to this, he bloody well should’ve just said so.

Without knowing whether it would even work, Draco prodded the code on the page and replaced it with a message of his own, hoping Michael would see it.

 _Ravenclaw git_.  
  
  


* * *  
  
  


After three days, an Auror comes in and tells Draco that he has been deemed a non-hazardous offender and not at risk for flight, so he will be under house arrest along with his mother.

Draco momentarily contemplates asking about his father but thinks better of it. Lucius has been on the Auror Department’s persons-of-interest list for years, so it is unlikely that they will overlook both that and his unauthorised release from Azkaban the previous summer.

The house elves are gone, as every valuable asset tied to the Malfoy estate is frozen pending investigation and trial, so Draco and Narcissa work together to mete out a meal they barely touch. It surprises Draco how calming the art of cooking is; its resemblance to Potions makes him temporarily forget the fact that he is cooking his own food for the first time in his life.

Soon, Draco looks forward to these chores. They give him something else to think about besides the slip of parchment that feels like lead inside his pocket — heavy and poisonous against his thin skin. _Michael would’ve found this funny_ , Draco thinks after finishing the washing up after his third day of house arrest.

The revelation hits him in the chest like a truckload of bricks.

He absconds in his room, grateful that Narcissa will not come looking for him here. They had agreed to one private space apiece, and Draco is grateful for it now. He huddles under the bed covers, still fully clothed, and forces his eyes to close so he can sleep. It’s not even half seven, but he doesn’t want to be awake anymore.

Of course, he doesn’t sleep at all.

Behind his eyelids, spots of colour clash around the face he tries to forget — one with smooth black hair, dark eyes, pale skin, and an omnipresent sardonic expression. A ghostly hand with long, dextrous fingers reaches out to Draco, and without hesitation, Draco takes it. Those downturned lips creep upwards into a slight smile, and all the air freezes like cement in Draco’s lungs.

 _I’m sorry_ , Draco tries to say, but when he opens his mouth, he hears nothing but screaming.

He bolts upright in bed, only to find that it is his own voice ringing in his ears.  
  
  


* * *  
  
  


Draco wasn’t assigned to detention the night before Halloween, but his re-established prefect position landed him on patrol, instead. His route took him past the Dark Arts classroom at least twice, and each time he traversed that hallway, he found himself peering into shadows in search of his usual tagalong Ravenclaw.

Finally, when he could not spot Michael on his own, Draco hissed, “Corner!”

Almost on cue, Draco felt himself jerked into a darkened cupboard. Closing the door gingerly, Draco cast an Illumination Charm in time to see Michael’s form melt into sight.

“Disillusionment Charm,” Draco said, feeling ridiculous for not having guessed.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Michael said, his tone lacking the hopeful undertones that it had carried upon their last meeting.

“I want to know what you want from me,” Draco replied, holding up the charmed parchment Michael had given him. “Why would I agree to help you if you won’t even tell me what it is you want me to do?”

Michael pushed the parchment, clenched fist and all, towards Draco’s chest. “All I want to know is who is slated to give the curses.” At Draco’s look of surprise, Michael continued, “Each person who casts the curse shows similar patterns in their victims. And since Madam Pomfrey isn’t allowed to treat them anymore, a few of us have been doing what we can. I just need to know what I’m facing.”

Draco’s brows shot up in surprise. “You don’t want me to refuse to curse them or anything?”

Shaking his head, Michael said, “That wouldn’t help anyone.” He sighed heavily. “Neville and Ginny have good intentions, but all of this obvious resistance is only landing the lot of them in detention. Look at that fiasco at the welcoming feast!”

Michael’s words were one of the few sensible things Draco could recall hearing all year. “The Carrows are twisted. They don’t even know who they’re dealing with. Snape is as benign as Flitwick next to those two.”

His mouth pulling into a taut, stern line, Michael asked, “You know them well?”

“Not very,” Draco admitted, “but I’ve heard stories of what they do for ‘fun’.” He could tell Michael’s curiosity was piqued, but it was only hesitantly that Draco recounted the tale as he had heard from Goyle, the Carrows’ nephew.

Once Draco finished, Michael’s jaw was hanging open flaccidly. “They fed them their own baby,” he repeated when he finally seemed to regain the ability to speak. “They let those lunatics into a _school_?”

Draco nodded, as he didn’t trust himself not to vomit after telling a story that had given him nightmares for a week after he had heard it. More than that, however, an immense feeling of relief came over him that he no longer had to carry the burden of this knowledge alone.

“Thank you for telling me, Draco,” Michael said quietly before poking his head out of the room to look for passers-by. Casting a fresh Disillusionment Charm, he slipped out into the hall and left Draco alone.

The idea of Michael calling him by his first name disconcerted Draco. The only people who called him ‘Draco’ were his parents, the Dark Lord, and a few of the older Slytherin girls looking to catch his eye. Everyone else called him ‘Malfoy’, but Draco found that he preferred it that way.

Soundlessly, Draco mouthed Michael’s name, as if trying out whether to reciprocate the gesture. It felt odd in his throat, but not uncomfortable. Naturally, he would never say it to Michael’s face, but Draco would not grant him the satisfaction of being the only one to dare to do it.

Confident that his composure had been restored, Draco exited the cupboard and continued his route down the Dark Arts hallway. The classroom door muffled much of the screaming and crying, but Draco could hear enough that he could almost tell who was serving detention and who was delivering the punishment. Crabbe was there for sure, and one particular shriek of pain he knew belonged to Parvati Patil.

There was another cry, though. This one was a keening wail, which sounded like it belonged to a much younger student. Almost on cue, the door burst open, and out stumbled the crippled girl that Draco had seen Alecto target on the way to the carriages that first day.

Emily Gamp was her name, and she had been a home-schooled student before being forced to attend Hogwarts. She had been sorted into Ravenclaw as a fifth-year, and Draco recalled the students of that house going out of their way to accommodate her disability. He imagined the large, sprawling layout of the castle and the shifting staircases didn’t do her any favours, but to his knowledge, she had never served detention before this night, so she must have managed it well enough.

 _But not tonight_ , he mused bitterly.

As she fell to the floor, Emily reached out to him, her screams twisting into one single word: “Help!”

Crabbe followed her out of Carrow’s office, his wand trained on her steadily. Casting the curse over and over again, Crabbe’s face was almost orgasmic as Emily’s twisted limbs writhed on the floor like those of a dying spider.

Her shrill cries reached into Draco’s psyche and shook loose something he had tried very hard to close off. Slowly, her cries became his, and Crabbe wasn’t Crabbe anymore.

_Draco stood in front of the Dark Lord, his head bowed in defeat as Snape’s hand rested on his shoulder. He could feel the Dark Lord peering into his mind, pulling out memories and feelings from his failed efforts to kill Dumbledore, but Draco made no effort to hide them. It would’ve been useless, anyway; nobody had that sort of Occlumency ability._

_“You disappoint me, Draco,” the Dark Lord said with a tsk. “Your efforts were childish and unworthy of the honour bestowed upon you with this task. It is fortunate that Severus is not as weak-willed as you are.”_

_Each syllable he spoke chilled Draco to the core. If all of his worst nightmares had an incarnation, the Dark Lord was twice as frightening as every one of them. Draco learned this for sure on the unfortunate occasion that he had found a Boggart in the broom shed that took the Dark Lord’s form, and he had cried in the grass until Lucius found him an hour later and banished it._

_“Yes, my lord,” Draco replied quietly. “I was unworthy of the task.”_

_Snape’s hand tightened on Draco’s shoulder, who would have thought it a comforting gesture if he didn’t know better. “My lord,” Snape said carefully, “I fear I may be partially to blame for the boy’s misfortune in his efforts. It was my responsibility to ensure the deed was carried out, but in my over-zealousness to proceed, I may have pressured Mr Malfoy into less advisable courses of action.”_

_Draco was so shocked, he wasn’t sure if he did not gasp out loud. Snape tried to cover for him, to deflect the blame. He recalled feeling gratitude towards his prickly godfather, though he was careful not to mention it._

_It was all for naught, however. The Dark Lord swept Snape aside and sharply bade Draco to look him in the eye. “Perhaps you were not ready, but we should not look past an opportunity to know a lesson has been learned, shall we, Draco?”_

_No longer able to still his trembling, Draco whispered, “No, my lord.”_

_“Quite right,” the Dark Lord agreed. “_ Crucio _.”_

_Pain that Draco would never find the words to describe drilled its way through every nerve in his body. His own screams hummed in his ears like wasps, and he felt blood seep out of his body from several different orifices._

_And, just as Draco was sure this agony would never end, it did._

_“Never forget this, Draco Malfoy,” the Dark Lord drawled. “Never forget the price of failure in my service.”_

Emily’s floundering body was more than Draco could bear. He turned from the scene and ran as fast as he could until he found himself in the first floor bathroom, just in time to fall to the floor, unable to force air into his lungs.

His breaths came in short wheezes, and his chest felt like a leaden elephant had rested its great haunches on it. He couldn’t think or swallow or breathe, and his heart beat wildly against its ribcage prison as Draco tried in vain to cry out for help that he doubted would come.

He barely registered the arms that wound around him and forced him onto his stomach. Strong hands briskly rubbed his back as a disembodied voice murmured for him to breathe. Draco wanted to scream at the voice that he couldn’t, that his lungs didn’t work anymore and his heart was done for, but as he tried, the words caught in his throat and he choked on them. The flagstones that monopolised his vision began to darken, and Draco closed his eyes.

“No,” he gasped before spitting blood onto the floor. He realised that he had bitten his tongue at some point, hard enough to wound himself. “No,” he repeated, stronger this time.

His breathing gradually returned as his heart eased to a less torrid rhythm, and Draco felt himself being shifted to a sitting position. The room no longer swam in front of him, and the darkness abated to show Michael Corner’s calm face. He was breathing deeply. Draco could not help but do the same, and soon, he was able to sit up on his own.

They sat there quietly, save for Draco’s greedy gulps of air, for no less than an hour. Finally, Draco was able to speak. “I thought you were here to help them.”

Michael shook his head. “I let the rest of them know they would have to handle it.” It was then that Draco noticed that Michael’s hands, which had seemed so steady earlier, were trembling. “I thought you were going to die.”

“So did I,” Draco said honestly. “I . . . I remembered something, and suddenly, my chest just wouldn’t _work_.”

“Panic attack,” Michael supplied. “They can happen to anyone, but usually, someone either gets them regularly or has one triggered by a certain event.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I know what it is,” he said with a bite to his voice. “Just never had one.”

If Draco’s tone irritated Michael, he gave no sign of it. “A few of the detention victims have had them. Nothing like the one you had, but still really nasty business.” Michael shivered. “I can only imagine what brought it on.”

“It was _him_ ,” Draco said coldly. “I was supposed to kill Dumbledore last year, and he doesn’t like failure.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael muttered.

“Yeah.”

Silence reigned once again as Draco looked anywhere but at his companion, who was still sitting with barely a hair’s breadth between their respective shoulders. He did not understand how Michael could be so calm and collected, when all Draco wanted to do is hide under his covers, his bed curtains drawn tightly, and never come back out.

The damning little puddle of blood, where Draco had lain on his belly, was cleaned up with the swipe of his wand. Looking over himself to make sure he bore no more evidence of his episode, Draco was dismayed to find that his bladder had betrayed him. He shifted to hide the dark stain on the front of his robes, his face burning with shame. To his surprise, Michael turned to him and offered a kind expression that Draco was sure he had never received from anyone.

“It’s okay,” Michael said softly.

Wielding his own wand, Michael cast a few non-verbal cleaning spells, and Draco felt his robes and pants dry, and the stale scent of urine he hadn’t known he was smelling abated.

Draco did not know how to react to this attitude of Michael’s, which he could only term as decency, so he soon stood and made his way to the bathroom door. He wanted to leave without saying anything, but something stopped him.

Turning slightly, Draco said, “Thank you, Michael.”

This time, the words felt right.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco cooks often now. The undemanding, repetitive tasks give him something to think about that does not remind him of the Dark Lord, of Bellatrix, of Hogwarts, and especially of _him_. Slice and dice, sizzle and snap — the sounds of it are soothing to his restless nerves.

Sleeping is almost impossible. Draco tries not to think about it, but he had been better-rested whilst in a jail cell than he is in his own bed. He refuses to entertain the notion that the manor is too haunted for him to bear; it is his home, and he will not allow the Dark Lord to take that away from him, too.

He and Narcissa eat in silence. She has given up on trying to engage him in conversation after his fit three nights before. It’s obvious from how much she stares at him that she knows he is having these episodes, but Draco will not allow her to coddle him like a child. If his parents had truly wanted him to remain a child, they would not have invited the devil into their home. He doesn’t think he hates them for it, but he won’t rule it out, either.

“I’m going to the conservatory,” Draco says after he clears away his barely-touched plate.

The conservatory at Malfoy Manor is a lush indoor garden, which had been maintained by house elves until the family’s arrest. Draco had forgotten about it until he wandered into the room a few days ago and found the plants overrun with weeds. Tending it is a new duty he performs daily, and like cooking, it brings him peace.

“Hello,” he says to a particularly friendly Flutterby Bush. It coos in response.

Not even a month ago, Draco would have taken the mickey out of anyone who talked to plants, but now he understands. They listen to every word and offer no platitudes or tinned wisdom. He says the things he needs to say, and no one will throw it back in his face. And there are many things he needs to say.

“I’m tired,” he sighs. “I don’t want to think anymore.”

The dancing daffodils sway as he speaks, their trumpet-shaped petals angling towards him in unison as if enthralled. “Sometimes, I wish Potter had left me to burn in the Fiendfyre.”

The nearby singing violets gasp. “No?” Draco questions. “You think this is better, trapped in this bloody place?” He kicks over an unoccupied planter. “Fuck!”

Incognisant of his actions, he scratches at his Dark Mark until his flesh cracks.

Draco briefly considers tossing a few more pots before he draws the conclusion that he doesn’t have the energy for a tantrum. So, instead, he sits on the marble stepping stone and hugs his knees to his chest.

He sits there for a small eternity, ignoring the stray tears that slip down his face. No one sees him here; Draco can grieve however he likes. And grieve, he does. Michael had had a subtle faith in Draco’s better nature, which the latter selfishly enjoyed.

There are precious few people who believe that Draco even has a soul, let alone a decent one. It was that absurd notion that had caused Michael to enlist Draco to aid his cause, and the desire for it to be true had caused Draco to accept.

With a heavy sigh, Draco cleans up the rubble from the broken planter and resumes his routine.   
  
  


* * *   
  
  


“What the bloody hell were they thinking?” Michael spat as he paced the empty classroom, where he and Draco had begun meeting to discuss their newfound working relationship.

Draco shook his head as he leant against a dust-covered work bench. “Your friends are morons,” he agreed. “They seem to have missed the point of having a secret organisation. Painting an advert for it on a public wall doesn’t seem terribly secretive. Forget about that business last week with them breaking into Snape’s office.”

“Ginny can’t pass up a show,” Michael said, his glower deepening. “And they’re not my friends.”

This surprised Draco. “But you’ve been running along with that lot for a couple of years. You look thick as thieves to me.”

Michael sneered. “I only joined because they said Potter would teach us proper Defence Against the Dark Arts. Umbridge was a shit teacher, and I wanted to pass my OWL.”

“There are worse reasons for doing things,” Draco said, his gaze drifting to his left forearm, cloaked in the black fabric of his robes. For a moment, he considered confiding his resentment of himself and his father for his involvement with the Dark Lord, but he declined and instead said, “A lot worse.”

When Michael turned to look at Draco at this statement, the latter pointedly looked at the blackboard instead of his arm. However, the meaning of his statement did not escape Michael’s attention. “I get why you did it, you know.”

Something bristled inside of Draco. “I was scared. I had no choice.”

“I know, Draco. You’d be stupid if you weren’t.” Michael took a seat next to Draco on the table, his expression inscrutable. His mouth opened as if he were about to say something, but his jaw snapped shut and his attention seemed to fix on that same patch of blackboard that Draco found so riveting.

Finally, the silence that followed their awkward discussion angered Draco. “Why me?” he asked, a question that had simmered in his brain since the first time Michael had approached him to help.

“What?” Michael said, as if snapped out of a trance.

The urge to balk at asking occurred to Draco before he summarily dismissed it. It was a fair question. “Why did you ask me to help you? There are at least a half dozen Slytherins who would probably do it without question, and none of them will offend your little comrades if and when they find out you’ve even been talking to me.”

Michael took a deep breath, and the muscles along his jaw twitched as his jaw clenched. Draco was sure Michael was trying not to say something, but he decided to ask one question at a time.

When Michael spoke, it was with a cold and even tone. “No one will suspect you, and I thought that you might take the chance to redeem yourself a little. It was a calculated choice.”

Draco felt something drop in his stomach. “So you planned this all along? You just worked on me until I cracked?”

“No!” Michael said a little too quickly. “That’s why I decided to ask, but it’s not what gave me the idea.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “You’re not as horrible as you think you are.”

“And you’re not as smart as you think you are,” Draco fired back, his voice bearing a certain measure of anger. The smugness of Michael’s words soured in Draco’s stomach. The implication that Michael was better than Draco was bad enough. Worse still was the lingering feeling that this notion was not entirely unfounded, but that did not mean that Draco would excuse it.

When Michael gave him a quizzical look, Draco said, “You keep helping these idiots, and I can’t think of a single reason why you would risk a run-in with the Carrows and Snape to do it. I don’t know what’s worse: believing it will solve anything, or you thinking it’s a good idea to drag me down with you.”

More upset than he first realised, Draco pushed to his feet and away from Michael, stalking towards the door. Turning back, he said, “You know what, I will help you on this little fool’s errand of yours. Not because I want to redeem myself, or because I feel guilty for doing the things I was raised to do.” Noting the increasing volume of his voice, Draco added more quietly, “I’ll do it because when someone finally does kill the Dark Lord, I want to throw it in everybody’s face so I can keep my arse out of Azkaban.

“Still think I’m not that horrible?” he said, soft enough that he was sure Michael couldn’t hear.

Draco slammed the door, but he felt a rush of air as it jerked back open. What felt like a great, invisible hand wrapped around his torso and dragged him back into the room. When Draco looked up in surprise, he saw Michael’s wand trained on him, chest heaving. “Fuck you, Malfoy.”

Michael flicked his wand, and Draco could move again. Making a show of straightening his robes, Draco scowled. “You first, Corner.”

A humourless laugh came from Michael before he slashed his wand at one of the work benches and split it in two. The look on Michael’s face sent a chill through Draco. Rage was something he understood very well; he just didn’t comprehend why Michael was angry. “Why are you so fucking hostile?” he asked a split second before thinking better of it.

Michael’s intense gaze bored into Draco as he slammed them both against the wall. “You think you’re so wounded from all of this, but you don’t know _shit_. You know that girl you saw being tortured? Emily? They had to send her to St Mungo’s because she stopped breathing twice.”

Any retort he had contemplated died in its tracks as Draco looked away from Michael’s fierce expression. He had nothing to say. He had thought about Emily several times after that night, but not once had he made an effort to ask after her. However, it just felt like Michael was proving what Draco had said about himself earlier. “What do you want me to say?” Draco asked honestly.

Draco’s words seemed to find a home in the reasoning part of Michael’s mind. The almost rabid demeanour he had worn melted back into his usual stony one, and the hands that had clenched Draco’s shoulders painfully tight began to slacken.

It was then that Draco became aware that Michael’s palms lingered just above his hammering heart for a few seconds before quickly dropping his arms to his sides. Both of them looked away, and Draco backed towards the door once more.

“I, er, should at least pretend to patrol,” Draco mumbled.

“Yeah,” Michael said, barely louder than a whisper. “Let me know.”

As Draco walked away from the room, his thoughts strayed to those last awkward moments between them. His shiver had little to do with the draughty corridors.   
  
  


* * *   
  
  


He doesn’t know the solicitor who comes to speak to him about his upcoming trial, but Draco lets him into the house without question. Despite Narcissa’s insistence, Draco had not planned on utilising legal representation during his trial. However, the new legislation requires the Ministry to provide all defendants with legal aid, should they not have the means to pay for one independently. And, as the Ministry has so kindly frozen all of the Malfoy family assets, Draco reckons that he does fit the parameters of the new law.

“Benjamin Selmy,” the solicitor offers, extending his hand with a broad smile on his face.

Looking at the proffered grip, Draco can’t help but think that this Selmy, who scarcely looks older than Draco, is recently qualified and has no better job prospects at the moment than defending Death Eaters. The idea makes him strangely happy, because he gets Selmy before the rest of the Death Eaters he will no doubt be representing break his will.

Draco plasters a giant smile on his face and takes Selmy’s hand. “Draco Malfoy. A pleasure.”

Despite Draco’s insistence that they will have plenty of privacy discussing the case in the dining room, Selmy insists on sequestering them to a more private room. So as Draco settles into the chair opposite his father’s usual spot in the library, Selmy looks around the room in wonder. “How many books are there?”

“Four-thousand-one-hundred-ten,” Draco offers without thinking, though he doesn’t actually know the answer. It sounds suitably pompous for his purpose.

Selmy looks around, his grin widening as he drinks in the wall of shelved volumes, most of which haven’t been removed from their places in decades — possibly centuries. “How many have you read?” Selmy asks.

“A fair few.”

The curt nod of approval tells Draco that he is accomplishing what he set out to do. “Well, don’t let me keep you,” Draco says sweetly. “I’m sure you have loads to do, so shall we get down to business?”

His glee only faltering a fraction, Selmy bobs his head. “Of course. If I were facing losing all these books, I’d want to put that behind me quickly, too.”

Draco bares a toothy grin that he is sure looks like a wince. “Right you are. Now, where do we start?”

After a few questions, Draco finds that Selmy is actually a capable person and knows how to ask the right questions. Draco answers them all truthfully, albeit saturated with implications of his own innocence and no end of details that are sure to make him look like a victim. Getting his Dark Mark had been so _painful_ that he’d cried. He was _so scared_ when ‘You-Know-Who’ had commanded him to kill Dumbledore. All he wanted during the Battle was to find his parents and leave. These things are all technically correct.

Selmy absorbs this information quietly, scribbling notes on Muggle paper rather than parchment or a Dictaquill. Draco declines to mention how much time this wastes, but rather makes a point of filling awkward pauses while Selmy is writing with the appearance of angst-ridden thoughtfulness.

Finally, Selmy looks up from his notes and considers Draco carefully. “Is there anyone you know of who can speak for you? Someone who knows that you are of good character?”

It is all Draco can do to keep up his angelic façade as something icy blossoms inside him. “There was,” he says cryptically. “He died.” Draco ignores the stammered apology and shakes his head. “No, I couldn’t possibly . . . well, there is one person who _might_ be willing, but I’m afraid he might not be available.”

Selmy seems surprised to hear Harry Potter’s name. That Draco knows the country’s favourite golden boy at all gives Selmy the air of a child who has collected the final Chocolate Frog card for his complete set.

Draco merely hopes that Potter remembers the two times the Malfoys helped him on his way to defeating the Dark Lord, and not every other time they had ever spoken.

Either way, Selmy is wrapped around Draco’s finger and will do his best to keep Draco — and hopefully, his mother — out of Azkaban. He can’t help but think that Michael would disapprove of such methods, but Draco cannot think of any punishment the Ministry can exact that is worse than what he has already endured.

If there is anything Draco knows, it’s that his sentence has already been passed and the cell door shut. No solicitor can release Draco from his own mind.   
  
  


* * *   
  
  


On nights when he didn’t have patrol duty or detention detail, Draco found whatever ways he could to figure out who was dealing out detentions and sent the names to Michael. The rest of the time, they would meet in their designated place.

Draco would not have said that he looked forward to these visits, as most of their conversation was about the logistics of their arrangement, but he did appreciate Michael’s keen mind. His status as one of Ravenclaw’s top students was well-earned, and he had a natural ability to see things that were not always very clear. It was also one of Michael’s most disconcerting qualities.

“So, what is it with you and Pansy Parkinson?” Michael asked suddenly one evening, after they had waited out a detention session in relative silence.

Though Draco was surprised by the question, he tried to give no indication of it. “The usual. She’s the richest Slytherin girl in our year, and I expect we’ll be married in a few years, depending on how the war turns out.”

“Oh,” Michael said, his voice sounding oddly disappointed. “And here I thought you just had no taste.”

Brushing aside any thought of mock outrage at the comment, Draco chuckled. “No, I can tolerate her, at best. Her voice is like a troll choir with laryngitis.”

Both of them laughed at this comment, even though Draco knew he would eventually have to procreate with the subject of their derision. If not her, then he would have to choose someone else just as distasteful. It did not take long for the idea to sober Draco’s amusement.

Truthfully, he had not given a great deal of thought to his life after the war once he found himself in possession of a Dark Mark. By that point, he was more worried about whether he would live through the whole ordeal at all. If the Dark Lord won, there would be several casualties on both sides, and Draco could not say for certainty that he was strong or skilled enough to be one of the survivors. If the Order of the Phoenix and their lot were victorious, Draco would most certainly find himself in prison in short order, and no defence he could conceive of would keep him out.

“Seems like a good way to waste your life,” Michael replied, snapping Draco out of his reverie. “My parents always told me to be happy.”

Draco snorted. “Happiness is for fools and children. Family and duty should always come first.”

At this, Michael’s face drew into a pensive frown. After a solid minute of silence, save for the odd scurrying of rodents in the darkened corners of the room, Michael said, “If that’s what family means to you, then I feel sorry for you.”

A spurt of irritation caused Draco to move away from Michael, who was seated immediately to his left, and pace in front of the dusty chalkboard. Michael’s words struck Draco in a place he tried to seal off. Family and duty meant everything to Draco, yet it was family and duty that led him to the Dark Lord’s service and a future he could not even call his own, should he survive the war. Draco wanted to throw Michael’s comment back in his face, but in that way Michael had, the truth in the statement was too heavy for Draco to lift.

With a roar of frustration, Draco’s fist collided with the blackboard. Shards of slate clattered to the floor, dancing off the flagstones like wind chimes as they crumbled to tiny pieces. However, the only breaking sound Draco heard was his knuckles, as the tell-tale snaps carried through the muscles in his arms and filled his ears with the sickening crunching of bone.

Hurling profanities Draco had never even thought of using before, he grasped his hand to keep himself from hitting the wall again.

“I hate him!” Draco spat. He repeated the epithet until his voice petered out, and he sat on the floor amidst the remnants of the blackboard with angry tears in his eyes. He was not certain whether ‘him’ was Lucius or the Dark Lord, but Draco supposed it could be either one.

When Michael took Draco’s broken hand, the latter tried to snatch it back, which only served to increase the throbbing in his mangled bones. Michael, however, was persistent as he wrested control of Draco’s injured hand and murmured a few healing spells. The sounds of crackling bone filled the room, but Draco felt relief as he realised that his hand was knitting back together.

Draco waited for Michael to ask questions, to poke at his wounds, but the only thing that met his ears afterwards was the sound of heavy breathing. It took Draco a few seconds to recognise the ragged sounds as coming from his own lungs. It was even longer before he noticed that Michael was still holding Draco’s mended hand.

He knew he should pull away and retreat from the room before any further pathetic displays could take place, but Draco found the gesture oddly comforting. Someone was allowing him to feel the betrayal and frustration that had stewed below the surface for a year and a half, and it oozed from him like a lanced wound.

“My father had a choice,” Draco rasped. “He could’ve gone to the Ministry when he felt his Mark burn, and they would have protected him. He didn’t have to go back, but he did. He took both me and my mother down with him, and I hate him for it.”

“No, you don’t,” Michael said softly, causing Draco to start. At Draco’s gape, Michael explained, “You don’t hate him. You feel betrayed and disappointed. He could’ve done something brave and protected you and your mum, but he was too much a coward to do it.”

Draco sneered. “You’ve got no right to psychoanalyse me, Corner. This is reality, not some dusty old book you checked out because you lot can’t be found without one.”

“My mother was married to a Death Eater for twenty years,” Michael said, no hint of emotion in his voice.

Surprise did not even begin to cover Draco’s reaction as he stared at Michael. “You . . . what?”

Michael shrugged. “A year or so before I was born, my mother was married to a bloke named Travers. He killed an entire family, and her testimony put him in Azkaban. He broke out in our fifth year, which is when Mum decided I needed to know that she doesn’t actually know who my father is: _him_ , or the man I’ve called Dad since I was old enough to walk.”

As Draco absorbed this information, he found himself thinking about Michael Corner in a completely different light. Briefly, he wondered what would have happened if Narcissa had sold Lucius out to the Ministry after the Dark Lord’s first defeat. Would he have still borne the name and power of the Malfoy family? Would he have even known any Death Eaters? Would he have ever laid eyes on the Dark Lord in his life?

“She did it so she could be happy,” Michael said finally, disturbing Draco’s reverie. “And so I could grow up and have my own life, not the one Travers would’ve given me.”

Michael’s words struck a chord of resentment in Draco. It galled him that someone else could have found himself on the same path, yet was far more content with his lot than Draco could ever imagine being ever again. He envied Michael and his family and his autonomy. Draco might have even hated Michael for just a moment.

“Like I said before, Draco,” Michael said, “I get it. You were never given a choice about these things, and I thought you should have a chance to make one on your own and do something right with it.” Finally releasing Draco’s hand, Michael wrapped an arm around Draco’s shoulders and helped them both to their feet. “Do what you’ve got to do after the war, but for now, be your own man.”

Draco blinked as everything he had assumed about Michael Corner’s motivations dissolved and rebuilt itself from the dust. A warm palm rested on his shoulder and slowly wended its way down his arm until it grazed the blackened skin of his forearm. Draco winced, but he did not pull away.

Slowly, Michael’s hand drifted downwards again until his fingertips fluttered against the underside of Draco’s wrist. Draco could feel his heart hammer in response, and his breaths tore into short, urgent bursts. He saw Michael’s brow quirk in surprise before brushing a thumb over Draco’s rapid pulse.

Draco tried and failed to find words to explain what he was feeling, and yet again to tell Michael to keep his hands to himself. Instead, he allowed these bizarre sensations to catapult his mind far away from their dismal surroundings of musty and crumbling slate, and into one where his parents — and Draco, too — had chosen differently.

When Michael’s other hand cupped Draco’s chin, both of them stared at one another. Draco could feel Michael’s heartbeat through the soft flesh of his palm, and it was in concert with his own. Averting his eyes, Draco didn’t see Michael’s mouth until their lips brushed together so lightly that it could barely be considered touching.

Something came to life in Draco’s belly as he responded to this barely-kiss. With a groan, he shoved Michael against the broken blackboard, ignoring the sounds of its remnants crunching beneath their feet. Draco ground his mouth into Michael’s as he lifted the slightly shorter boy by the bum onto the chalk ledge.

Their hips rubbed roughly against each other’s, and Draco felt himself harden. He tried to remember ever experiencing anything like this before, but his brain was too clouded to even attempt it. When fingers shot through his white-blond hair, Draco forgot a lot of things he was trying to think about.

Through monumental effort, they separated. Michael slid against Draco’s torso for the few inches it took for his feet to touch the floor, yet their gazes remained unbroken. Draco could not look away from Michael’s dark brown eyes, which were shot with slivers of blue to make them seem as black as his hair. It was not until Michael blinked and side-stepped that it hit Draco what had just happened. He kissed a boy, and it had felt damn good. Draco’s cheeks burned as he turned away. He could almost feel Michael reaching for his shoulder, but the touch mercifully never came as Draco swiftly exited the room. His patrol duties forgotten, Draco found himself seeking out the Room of Hidden Things so he might stash away this newfound realisation that he had a staggering attraction to Michael Corner. * * *

The day of Draco’s trial comes more quickly than anticipated, along with Potter’s surprising agreement to speak on Draco’s behalf at the hearing. However, the wizarding world’s golden boy has asked to speak with Draco beforehand, which Draco knows can injure his chances of walking away from all of this a free man, but he consents.

Harry Potter paces in front of Draco, who is shackled at the hands and feet to prevent an escape attempt he does not plan on making. Potter rubs his scar as he considers Draco, and it is a full five minutes before he finally speaks.

“I’m surprised you had the nerve to ask me to do this.”

Draco huffs. “I didn’t. My solicitor asked if there was anyone who might have a good word to put in for me, and as far as I know, I haven’t tried to save anyone’s life who actually knows about it except yours. I was as surprised as you when you said yes.”

Potter’s eyes narrow. “So that’s your play? You were wishy-washy about who I was for a minute or two while Bellatrix figured it out anyway? You think that gives you the right to walk away from what you have coming to you?”

“Not really,” Draco says noncommittally. “But as I don’t really have anyone else, it seemed like it was worth a try. My solicitor is suitably impressed that I know you so intimately.”

“Bollocks,” Potter hisses. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“And you don’t know the first thing about me, either,” Draco replies, nonchalantly reaching up to itch his lightly stubbled chin with his cuffs. “Yet here we are.”

Disgust written on his face, Potter turns away from Draco. He doesn’t look back when Draco asks, “Well, what are you going to say?”

“The truth,” Potter replies. “You’re a coward, a git, and a bigot, but not a murderer.”

Draco smiles wryly. “You must like having my life in your hands. Justice and all that rubbish.”

Potter murmurs something under his breath that Draco doesn’t hear, but he isn’t listening anyway. The word ‘justice’ wraps around his throat like a noose. If such a thing exists, then it has failed a great many people.

Michael.

For a moment, Draco contemplates telling Potter about his — for the lack of a more correct term — relationship with Michael, but the idea is quickly doused when the mere concept makes him feel filthy. Somehow, the idea of rotting away in a prison cell seems the lesser of two evils when compared to selling out the one part of himself that was allowed to exist outside of who Draco is and who he was.

“Fine,” Draco agrees. “Say what you will.”

Draco is less than sure about how Potter will portray him to the Wizengamot, but he can bank on Potter’s indefatigable sense of self-righteousness to at least not be the one to toss him head-first into Azkaban. It isn’t much, but it is something.   
  
  


* * *   
  
  


The messages came quickly for the first few days. _Can we talk? Please meet me. I’m sorry. Please talk to me._

Draco did not keep count of how many times he had crumpled up their message paper, only to smooth it out minutes later. He intended to keep up his end of the bargain, even if he hoped never to look at Michael again. During his patrol hours, Draco would actively avoid the Dark Arts room and anything remotely near it. He did not care if there were do-gooder Ravenclaws lurking in the shadows, nor did he plan on turning one in if there were. All he wanted to do was wash his hands of every moment he had ever spent with Michael Corner.

Naturally, the last moment they’d spent together was the one Draco could not forget to save his life.

He thought about the kiss frequently and, at times, embarrassingly. It only took a few awkward incidents with Blaise seeing Draco touching himself before the latter made a habit out of drawing his curtains. Draco was going to let his roommates think he had finally found a way around his distaste for Pansy, and if they asked, that was what he planned on telling them. Though he did not know how they would react to the thought of two boys together, Draco didn’t fancy finding out. He knew how he would react, and that would have been to take the piss as much as humanly possible — something Draco did not want to deal with.

Draco played this game of avoidance with Michael for nearly three weeks, and then it was time for the Christmas holidays. He fervently hoped that he could scrub any thoughts of it from his mind before he returned home and to the Dark Lord’s piercing Legilimency. If what Michael had said about his mother was true, the Dark Lord would not take kindly to Draco fraternising with blood traitors.

The trip to Hogsmeade to board the Hogwarts Express in no way resembled the students’ arrival in September. No one — not even Longbottom and his tiresome lot — dared to disturb the peace. Draco would not have been surprised if the Carrows dragged any malcontents back to the castle if they had done, and with only a total of five students remaining for the holidays, troublemakers would have nowhere to hide.

Almost automatically, Draco looked around the train platform for Michael, spotting him standing with his housemates. It unnerved Draco when he made eye contact with Terry Boot, someone he didn’t recall ever speaking to, and received a withering glare.

Draco bit his lip and looked away. Did Boot know? Had Michael told anyone about what had happened between them?

Somehow, he doubted it, as Michael had always voiced his distaste for creating trouble for himself and other people. It didn’t mean, however, that Boot had not worked it out on his own. Draco could easily imagine Boot finding the charmed parchment and, curious as to who Michael was contacting, following Michael to one of their illicit meetings.

With that thought, Draco looked directly forward and cursed both himself and Michael for how careless they had been. Had they been seen by the wrong eyes, both of them would have paid for their meetings. Especially Michael. While Michael’s ‘friends’ would see the merit in his dealings with Draco, the people Draco answered to were far less likely to —

“Why don’t you mind your own business, you little wankstain!”

Startled by the outburst from Crabbe, who had been chattering away with Goyle just a step behind, Draco turned to look at what had caused the disturbance. Crabbe was standing toe-to-toe with a substantially height-deficient Terry Boot. The staggering size difference between Crabbe’s troll-like physique and Boot’s slight frame was amplified by the audience that had gathered.

Boot crossed his arms and looked up at Crabbe. “I wasn’t talking to you, you smelly, inbred plonker.” He said each word slowly, as if to ensure that Crabbe’s minuscule brain could comprehend them.

Swallowing a smattering of admiration for Boot’s bravado, Draco cleared his throat as he saw the muscles of Crabbe’s thick neck pulsate. “That’s enough, or I’ll take house points from the both of you.” Draco held up an arm to block Goyle from standing next to Crabbe, preventing him from tilting the already lopsided odds further against Boot. “Now get all your arses on the train before I hex the lot of you.”

For a long, awkward moment, no one moved or spoke. But then Boot wisely broke the stand-off and stomped off with a litany of curses — some of which Draco did not understand. The crowd began dutifully filtering into the train compartments, and little evidence remained of the spectacle.

It was then that Draco caught Michael’s gaze across the platform. The latter mouthed ‘thank you’ before heaving himself and his trunk up the steps. At this, Draco wondered if Michael had known Terry was going to make a scene, and if Crabbe had perhaps not been the intended target. It disgusted Draco to think that Michael would be so cowardly as to send his pint-size best mate to fight his battles like some whinging little jilted lover.

Barring that last thought to the dark recesses of hell where it belonged, Draco swung himself onto the train and decided not to peek into Michael’s compartment when he made his obligatory rounds.

Regardless, no new drama surfaced as the students filed into the train. Perhaps it was the thought of going home, or that Professor McGonagall was on the platform to oversee the rest of the boarding, rather than the Carrows. While McGonagall had no great love for Draco, he did not believe she would subject any students to any sort of Carrow-issued punishment. However, Draco was glad to see her and all of Hogmeade shrink into the treeline as the train pulled away from the platform and headed south.

As Crabbe and Goyle discussed the troll boxing championships, Draco slipped out of the compartment and proceeded to the prefect carriage, where the meeting he was already late for had begun without him. Padma Patil — one of the few former prefects to retain her position — gave him a withering glare before continuing to set the patrol rotation for the rest of the trip. Four thirty-minute shifts each, with all hands on deck at Platform 9 ¾.

To Draco’s everlasting lack of surprise, he was given the first shift and was assigned the back half of the train, where the older students, most of whom hated him, tended to congregate.

This did throw a spanner in his plans to avoid Michael. However, if Longbottom’s lot was planning anything, Michael would likely not be involved. Draco nearly sighed aloud with relief as his cursory sweep of his patrol territory showed that Michael was sitting with his surly friend and a couple of other Ravenclaws, not Longbottom and his little brigands-that-could.

His first round proceeded without any disturbances, so Draco returned to his own compartment, where he found Crabbe and Goyle swapping detention stories whilst arm wrestling. Rolling his eyes, Draco tried to tune out their conversation before it elicited any unwanted thoughts, but he was unsuccessful as their previously mundane exchange took a nauseating turn.

“The Gamp girl was like a shrieking cat,” Crabbe said with a chortle. “She was waving around like a windmill. Crab legs and all.”

Goyle punched Crabbe in the arm and snorted. “Funniest damn thing I ever seen. Parents should’ve left that one in the ditch she spazzed out of.”

Draco forced down the vomit that threatened to present as he recalled the girl’s twitching, spastic limbs and deathly screaming. “It’s almost time for me to patrol again,” he lied as he hustled to the door. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Though he couldn’t recall having ever begged leave from Crabbe or Goyle in his entire life, Draco left the compartment without another word or destination in mind for the hour and a half he had left until his next required round. He was relieved to find Blaise and Theodore Nott in the next carriage, holding court over a flock of fifth-year Slytherins who acted as if they were rubbing elbows with royalty.

_Gods, was I ever that young?_

The thought of being naïve enough to believe that seventh-years held some sort of power over anything relevant was laughable. The ones who supposedly had all the answers were just as lost as the small-minded infants who aspired to be one of them. Draco believed that being an adult was probably no different; they all merely faked being in control like Draco had done the year before during his ill-plotted assassination quest.

Blaise and Theodore turned out to be less than riveting company, but their talk was more of Quidditch scores and girls — harmless chatter at best. Letting their meaningless conversations wash over him, Draco did not notice that the train was slowing until it had come to almost a complete halt.

Knowing that his prefect services would likely be called upon anyway, Draco left the compartment to investigate whatever bizarre occurrence might cause the Hogwarts Express to stop. In the walkway, he saw a dozen confused faces, looking back and forth as if any of the others had an answer. One of those faces belonged to Michael. A brow quirked in question, and a slight shrug answered. Neither knew any more than the other. Draco was almost relieved that their first encounter after The Kiss had been so benign; this was not the moment for childish drama.

“Back into your compartments,” Draco said finally, knowing that nothing good could be causing the train to stop. “You’ll be told anything you need to know.”

Draco slowly made his way towards the prefect compartment at the front of the train, banishing curious onlookers back to their seats as he went along. It wasn’t until he finished scolding a pair of first-year Gryffindors that he heard the _crack_ of Apparition behind him.

“What are you doing on this train?” Draco asked the two Death Eaters standing in front of him.

Antonin Dolohov, who Draco recognised, sneered. “None of your business, Malfoy. Now, get out of my way.”

The pair of Death Eaters pushed past Draco, banging and open every carriage door until they found what — or rather, who — they were looking for. Barely anyone moved from their seats, let alone made a sound, as Luna Lovegood was dragged out of the compartment she had been sharing with Michael, Boot, and two younger Ravenclaws. The latter students shrieked and shrinked into their benches. Boot, who seemed to have forgotten his lesson from before, tried to struggle past Draco in a futile effort to stop the abduction. Michael was not far behind.

“Come back here, you sodding bastards!” Boot roared, his skinny arms surprisingly hard for Draco to contain. “I’ll kill you all! Come back and fight!”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Draco hissed between clenched teeth, starting to sweat as he waited for Boot to wear himself out.

Finally, once the Death Eaters Apparated away, Boot’s struggling slowly subsided until he sagged into Draco’s grip. “They have no right to take her!” he growled, once again trying to ply his inferior physical strength against Draco, with little result.

Shaking his head, Draco said quietly, “There is nothing you can do, so sit down and shut your mouth before they take you, too.” Draco had no idea why they would have wanted Lovegood and even less of a clue about what they would do with Boot, but whatever it was did not bode well for anyone.

A hand rested on Boot’s shoulder, and Draco’s breath hitched when he saw that it was Michael. “Terry, they already have her. Malfoy’s right; you don’t know where they took her or why. Just sit down, and we’ll figure this out.”

Boot seemed to finally understand reason, and he slowly complied with his friend’s request. Shooting Draco a scathing look, Boot muttered, “Bloody Death Eaters everywhere these days.” Draco ignored the statement and continued to send the few brave onlookers back to their seats.

Michael was waiting for Draco just outside his carriage, his face its usual impassive mask. “I know you don’t like Terry, and you didn’t have to keep him from getting himself killed. But you did. Thank you.”

Draco was momentarily startled by Michael’s cool, impersonal tone. They bore no resemblance to the borderline desperation he had exhibited during their awkward little snog. Perhaps he was aiming to go back to the impartiality that had begun their alliance, before Draco started acting like a pathetic git and sharing his feelings. Before Michael got the absurd idea in his head that they could ever be more.

_So be it_ , Draco thought. He had larger problems that required his attention than deciphering Michael’s moods — like being certain that the Dark Lord never became aware of their, for the lack of a better word, accord.

“Part of the agreement,” Draco said coldly. “Now, back to your seat.”

With no further word on the matter, the train rolled on.

The rest of the journey passed without incident, with few daring to call attention to themselves for fear of being taken, as well. Draco welcomed the peace, with even the carriage full of previously-rambunctious young Gryffindors knowing when to be quiet.

Draco barely acknowledged his parents on the platform in favour of quietly proceeding home. Had he not been lost in his own thoughts, Draco might have noticed the strange expression on Narcissa’s face, or the sterner-than-usual taut line of Lucious’s mouth before they Apparated back to Wiltshire and to the manor.

He heard the screaming before the front door even opened.

Bellatrix’s mad cackle met his ears in kind, a merrily sadistic melody in concert with the sound of agony. He saw her wand flicking and slashing through the air before he saw the huddled mass of black robes and lank blonde hair on the floor in front of his deranged aunt.


End file.
